Gender and the Box

I don't know if it's ever taken me this long to figure something out before. It has taken me five months and one day to realize why I've spent that long dabbling in slash--mainly reading but with some, albeit non-explicit, writing. I understand that this development is only an extension of what I started with Caryatid.

I write round male characters. I can only think of one or two round female characters--Felicity and Jane, I guess. Everyone else is male, but not in the strictly traditional sense. My men cry. They take things harder than they should. In a lot of ways, the characters in the Rodin trilogy should just be considered neuter. I know how odd that sounds. But now I know why I did it.


I've never been quite comfortable in the female stereotype. Women are supposed to be overly emotional, touchy-feeling, and too talkative. I am overly unemotional, have proxemics issues, and sulk. I'm a misanthropic bitch, not a people person. I don't into the socially assigned gender roles. I don't feel comfortable writing about either myself or the norm. I need a middle ground. I found it in mildly effeminate men.

Slash is my protest against the box. Oh, you know what box I mean; it's the box I talk about all the time. Society's box. The universe's box. The box I don't believe exists unless we let it hold us. I've been subconsciously using my male characters to do this for years. I guess I figure that if my men cry, maybe it's okay if I do, too. 

On that note, I should probably come clean. Oh, screw probably, I just feel like it. If I haven't already hinted enough, e is slash. AtGoh was developing bi storylines before I put it aside. The Glorious Struggle will also be slash. We'll just have to see where I go after November 30. Maybe I'll be able to write a strong female character then.

Going back to e, I finished Ch. 2 on Saturday afternoon and Ch. 3 this morning at approximately 2 am. I am now working on Ch. 4. I shall be done with Ch. 8, the halfway mark, by the end of the month.

"Don't let the stars run down."

Isaac Asimov.

Have I let my stars run down? Today is the eighth anniversary of the day that inspired me to write my first two novels. That day has filled many of my nights with inexplicable tears. That day gave me a cause, a cause to which I swore I would give me life. That day tore me apart and put me back together in its own image. That day was the Mark Adams to my Ralph Myers. I grieved. I hallucinated in novel form. I played both the prettiest trills and saddest elegies. I said I would never forget--could never forget.

And yet, today, I almost forgot. I was awake for two hours before I suddenly sat bolt straight with the knowledge of the date. I almost forgot. And I almost didn't care. Correction: I really didn't care.

I don't know if I do, now. I don't know if I care more or less than I can say. My priorities have expanded so much in the past year. I don't know how or why. I just know that I have moved back to square one, where I wonder if I can seriously live in this country for the rest of my life. My once beloved has been raped, and not by Henry Erikson. It's too hideous to watch. Especially when I see that I don't love her. I don't know if I ever really did. Was it infatuation?

Oh, these metaphors are in bad taste. My point is that I have no desire to write about Henry Erikson anymore. I have no desire to wear the bracelet I made in eighth grade. I desire now to cry more over what I don't feel than what I do. The black bile is fading away. I'm all phlegm--all logic. I'm sitting here telling myself that it's enough when it very clearly isn't. I've had this conversation before. I'll have it again. I won't ever find an answer that I like. That won't stop me searching.

But today, there is one singular question on my mind. I'll ask it again:

If I've let my stars run down, is there any way to reverse entropy?

Running Amok

Sometimes, I find English class really inspiring. It gives me new ways to procrastinate. Today, my teacher proposed a simple question. If you were a writer, how many rejections could you take? I said I wouldn't have a limit. Then I thought about it and realized that I have no empirical evidence. However, I do have a way to test it.

Today, after an hour or two of research, I submitted my wonderful second-person narrative "Amok" to a literary magazine called Vulcan. Yes, I absolutely love how fitting the names are. It wasn't really intentional. If I believed in such things, I would call it serendipity. Or fate. Either way, we'll see in a few weeks. I feel pretty good about the whole thing. But I must admit, a rejection would be, from an anthropological or psychological perspective, fascinating. 

Other random notes: My fanfic story is going well. I found a loose story line for The Glorious Struggle, or my NaNoWriMo project-to-be.

I am also loving this new layout. Change is good. To an extent. I think I've outgrown the depressing nature of Scribe.

Laundry List

Oh my, I seem to have forgotten about this lovely little blog. Unfortunately, I somehow managed to do quite a bit of writing. Here is a list of my high literary accomplishments since July 21:

-Rewrote Chapter 2 of Caryatid
-Finished Prologue of AtGoH
-Wrote Chapter 1 of AtGoH
-Finished "Amok"
-Finished "Running Ad Astra"
-Wrote a fanfic short story
-Came up with brilliantly convoluted story line for fanfic novel
-Outlined aforementioned 20-chapter fanfic novel, which we shall hereby call e
-Wrote Prologue of e
-Wrote Chapter 1 of e
-Started Chapter 2 of e
-Failed at crackfic application essays
-Added a disaster to add-a-disaster
-Decided to do NaNoWriMo!

There is my August laundry list. I must admit that I am quite proud of it--most of it. All of the fiction above not related to the Rodin trilogy is available online in various locations, one of which I will not name here.

I suppose the question now comes to, how do I feel? The answer is that I haven't let myself think about that until now, this moment, as these keys fly beneath my fingers and the tears well up in my eyes. Oh, yes, now I am thinking about it. I am thinking, not feeling. Because how do I feel? Oh fuck it all to hell. I don't feel anymore. I don't let myself. I'm not quite crying. That would be admitting emotion. I'm not. I'm simply admitting that I haven't cried in a bit too long.

I'm going to go work on Chapter 2 of e. I can write that safely, without all these sensations. This? This blog? Oh, it doesn't feel so very lovely at the moment.

Precession is a Force to be Trusted

Finally. Finally. Finally. I finally finished the third draft of the first chapter of my first novel. It took me how many months? I have lost count. All summer, I think. Anyhow, I just finished it. I have no idea what to think of it. It is 5500 words and 18 pages, considerably longer than even my freakishly consistent long chapters in Martyrs.And oddly enough, I think it says less than the first two versions. I'm getting more verbose. I think that's a bad thing. Oh whatever. Mark is less bipolar in it. Which is very, very good.

And the other thing about it? It's fun. It is so much more fun. In a dark, twisted, morbidly-ironic-for-the-omniscient-author sort of way. As in, I enjoyed writing part of it tonight. Mark is such a jerk. I love him. Poor Ralph. God I love this.

Anyhow, the whole thing is really about precession. I pushed. Went a direction I didn't mean to go, but whatever, I love it anyway.

With a tired shrug, Ralph offered, “Sir, I’m not sure that many people would see peace as compromising liberty.”

Mark pulled his lips into a thin, grim smile. “Do not be so sure, Ralph. Terror is a force of precession.”

Ralph’s eyes flashed in confusion. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Terror is intended as a source of chaos, Ralph. Terrorists use terror to incite fear and thus gain attention for their cause. They push for sympathy. They receive, almost invariably, hatred. And fear, yes, but they fail to understand that fear is only an effective management technique.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir. An effective management technique?”

Mark leaned in, his eyes sparkling in the incandescence. “Let’s try an experiment.” He turned up his charisma to full, smiling his brilliant, intoxicating smile. “An experiment to prove the worth of terror.” He leaned in just a little farther. “Are you afraid of me, Ralph?”

Ralph’s eyebrows shot up. His facial features shrank together. He was keenly aware of the feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he wouldn’t call it fear. It was just a never-ending sense of shock at the President’s eccentricity. “Sir, why would I be afraid of you?” he asked, his stomach dreading the answer.

“Oh, you are naïve, aren’t you?” Mark marveled at the mouse before him. “Let’s see if you can’t answer that in one week from today. You will be afraid of me Ralph, mark my words. You will see that fear is quite an effective management technique. You will not doubt me. You will trust me implicitly—without reservation.” His voice darkened despite his smile, as if to foreshadow the fear that was to follow, “And let’s see how it turns out for the both of us. I have my hypothesis; you make yours.”

Ralph was pale, his black eyes shimmering, reflecting the frenzy of the man across from him. He sat straighter in his chair. His stomach squirmed. “I think you assume too much, sir.” He shook his head. “Don’t I have better things to be afraid of than you?”

“You mean China?”

"I mean the Red National Army, sir."

Loneliness is more than a feeling--

This is a little over a week old. But it feels truer tonight than when I wrote it. So... Oh, I don't know. I've been writing a new short story. Science fiction. A nameless lunatic finds redemption in words. More or less. I don't know. I don't like it. I'm crying. Why? I think I must be bipolar. Or severely hormonal. Oh well. I meant to post the poem. That's the point, right?

Loneliness is more than a feeling—

More than a drop in serotonin,

More than the dark winter light,

More than the silence of a crowd,

More than the simple nothing.

Loneliness is the lack of a simple nothing—

Where all the lies crumble away

And we see ourselves for who we truly are.

Loneliness is the emptiness of the soul—

When we stand in front of an antique mirror,

With tears sparkling in our eyes,

And see that we are truly alone.

Loneliness is the claustrophobia—

That comes to our untouched skin

When we remember those psychology articles

About the human need for touch.

Loneliness is the irony—

Of the machine turning itself to a fetus

When we see that we are all too human

And that loneliness is so much more than a feeling—

Loneliness is a noun.

Forgotten Diagrams

Pages: 202. Words: 61,755. Chapters: 12. Prologue? Yes, and it is damn good.. Epilogue? It'll do pig. Favorite Passage: Still everything Mark says in Chapter 7: "Check Your Premises".

So yeah. Last night, i.e., this morning turned out pretty much how I expected. I went to sleep around five. Slept about two and a half hours. Woke up. Watched The Prestige. Made plans. Ate a cookie. Made more plans. Drank some caffeine--I mean tea. Made a bunch of sandwiches for other people. Got some bad news. Kept smiling. Realized I never actually diagrammed for Martyrs after I finished the epilogue... Figured this was as good of a time as any. Realized that I seem to have screwed up my arithmetic last time I diagrammed. Decided I am kind of epically failing at life today. Decided I don't really give a damn.

Because, for some uncanny reason, I feel just as good now as I did seven hours ago. And sleep deprivation doesn't seem to have ruined my mood. I don't get it. I should feel like crap. I don't. So I'm going to stop analyzing and just enjoy it. Coldplay tonight.

Awesome and very appropriate quote that I came up with. Will appear somewhere in Gates, just don't know where yet. "Happiness is just a chemical reaction..." Henry Erikson. And I am riding the serotonin. The diagram above depicts serotonin, coincidentally.

Part One: Cosmos
I. The Last Honest Man in Washington
II. Handkerchiefs and Hardships
III. The Silent Scream
IV. Lost Causes
V. The Human Bomb
Part Two: Chaos

VI. A Mouse in the Perfect Trap

VII. Check Your Premises

VIII. For How Life Should Be

IX. To Jump Off a Cliff

X. Forgiveness at Gunpoint

XI. No Way Out

XII. The Truth About Hope

New Caffeine-Induced Highs

I wanted to call this new lows, but I don't feel low. I feel kind of high. On caffeine. On the thrill of doing something new. On having been awake for 20 hours or so.

So, the point. I'm getting there, trust me.

I wrote fan fiction tonight. Yes. I haven't written fan fiction in years. Many, many years. But I did tonight. And I had a hell of a lot of fun with it. Because, you know, if you're going to write fanfic, it needs to be fun and crazy, right?

So one half of me feels like a sleazy cheap copy cat writer. The other half is too high to care.

I posted it on a site, even. A special site whose web address I will not give here. I can't decide if it would sully this blog or if this blog having any connection to that site would be the travesty. I'm not writing coherently. Oh well. Who gives a fuck?

In other news, the rewrite of Chapter 1: An Elegy for San Francisco, is almost compete.

I should try to sleep. Not going to happen, but I should try.

Back at Page One

So I seem to be back at page one, literally. I am trying to rewrite Caryatid now. I'm not having much luck. It hurts to write it. It hurts, and I don't know how to deal with the pain. Writing about Mark as a living, breathing, fallible human being is so... different, after these past few years. I don't know if I know him anymore. I seem to be clinging to the memory of him, not the real him. Kind of like Ralph, which figures, really. Anyhow, the rewrite (take three, actually) is going slowly. I am working on the flow, first and foremost, because that has always been my weakness. Or my primary foible. Ha. The voice is smoother, too, I think. It's deeper, as well. I use more words where they're needed. It is a slow and grueling process. I don't know if I'll ever actually get through it. Oh well.

I decided to rename most of the chapters in book one, too. The names were too... boring. I am now amused. Here are the changes:

Prologue. Once Upon a Time

1. San Francisco -- TBD after rewrite

2. The Sieve -- The Truth in the Sieve

3. Color -- TBD after a much-needed rewrite

4. The Kitchen Cabinet -- Ants in the Kitchen Cabinet

5. Hong Kong -- Ten Questions

6. Catalyst -- Crimson Catalysts

7. Secession -- A Shakespearean Comedy

8. Dualism -- Everything in Nothing

9. Scraps of Paper

10. The Trinity

11. Sandbox -- The Menagerie in the Box

12. The Loneliest Job

13. The Roundness of History

Epilogue. Inauguration Day

Tarot and Tea Leaves, in Real Life

Yesterday, I found myself sitting across a table from a supposed psychic, being asked to believe her. Charlatan would have been a more appropriate term, I believe, but I was not entirely in control of the situation. She asked me if I had any questions. I considered what this woman had told my friend and decided that I could use the charlatan's intuition to read my subconscious. I asked her about my writers' block. She told me exactly what I should have known.

The process has lost its fun--its magic, mystique. I no longer enjoy it. I view it as work. I have to try too hard. I write because of compulsion, not desire. I have lost the pulse of my words. I am no longer sure I even want to find it. Such circumstances do not create art. No, they create nothing but misery.

I asked her if I would soon change my course. She said yes, but not immediately. The block will end, and I will continue my current project. I will finish it, and then I will change. I recognize the necessity of this. A genre shift is in order.

She told me that my writing would bring me a good deal of money. I wanted to laugh in her face and tell her that a) I do not believe that and b) I do not care. Money will not make me happy, for I do not believe anything or anyone can truly make me happy. It is an emotion I do not comprehend, and perhaps it is better this way. I am not happy. But I am content.

I am afraid this means I have forgotten how to have fun. Even with my writing. This would seem to imply an end. I may have hit it. I cannot say. I never know whether to believe my subconscious. I shall have to meditate.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, my tarot cards must have clouded up." Mark Adams

An Old Theme

It is hardly new. I would require more than my two hands to count off all the writers who have done it before. I don't think my attempt is any better. It is a fusion of sorts, I suppose. It is short, and it is bitter. It is deeply personal, in a way that so few of my works are. It is a thought I had months ago. It did not come to words until last night and tonight, now that I seem to be on the brink of insanity.

I am, finally, putting myself on trial for Crimes Against Humanity. The case is The People v. J. So far I have written the case for the Prosecution and the brief statement for the Defense. What I still have to write is the Verdict, and I am afraid I have not yet reached a decision. I cannot say if I am Guilty or not. That is a lie. By the standards I present, I know the answer. It is irrefutable. I do not know why this causes me so much trouble. It is simple. It is undeniable. It is truth.

I don't live by those standards. I reject to them. I object to them. "I object to intellect without discipline. I object to power without constructive purpose." Mr. Spock was right. This is driving me mad. I must finish this. I must finish it now.

I do not recognize the validity of this Court. I do not recognize the authority of this Government. I do not recognize any inherent power of Society, and I do not recognize any socially binding duty to Humanity. In my life, I live by only one Law: that my life is my own. I live for myself alone, not for your sacred Society. I do not need to justify myself. If these words violate your Laws, I will not apologize. I will not beg for the mercy of this Court. I will not submit to you. I will not die like a dog. You do not own me; Society owns no individual. I am my own. If you wish to kill me to prove me wrong, then try it. If you feel you must destroy me to keep order, do it. You say you have the power, so prove it. Kill me, and prove me right. 

Caricature of a Writer

I believe that I am better than the system. I am, and that is why I am damned.

I have never seriously considered publishing my work (Caryatid) because I believe that it is too good for the system--the broken system that churns out formulaic plot-driven trash with characters who are nothing but good ol' flat caricature. My beloved book is better than that. On the contrary, it is driven by characters. Or perhaps by one character in particular, even after he is murdered. My books are beautiful in my head. They have simple, painfully real and wretched backdrops but speak to truths that are, I hope, universal. They are about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances who find themselves torn apart. They lose the essence of their person. The idealist is forced to sacrifice his ideals in order to save them. The duty-bound moralist sends his morals to hell to fulfill a moral duty he isn't sure he should. The romantic tries to please her truth-loving husband by answering his seemingly innocent question honestly, but he emotionally abandons her for it. The young cynic knows she is absurd for retaining her ideals and believing in lost causes, but she fights for them all the same. The scarred veteran turned dove wages the most destructive war in all of human history for his tyrannical vision of peace. The lover, who wants nothing more than a healthy and committed relationship, accepts an entirely one-sided relationship based solely on the physical.

It occurs to me that these, my primary and secondary characters, all sound rather pathetic when broken down like this. And I suppose they are. That is the point. We are all rather pathetic when we view our actions through the objective lens of our own goals and desires. A report card graded through our own criteria shows undeniable failure for every human being. No one is happy, and those who say they are are only deluding themselves. Everyone is quite internally miserable, even if they blame outside events for their misery. Modern literature fails to acknowledge this, or anything, really. It pretends that everything and everyone are fine and happy. That they are only sad in the dark of night. That the sun and love chase away the nightmares. That all people are the victims of circumstance. In that sense, they are almost correct. People are the victims of circumstance--their own internally-created circumstances. Each individual creates his or her own personal hell. Happiness is boring; misery is much more exciting. The happiness is in the pursuit, not the accomplishment. Everyone is a masochist because society has taught that it is far better to be a masochist than a sadist.

My books dare to show humanity for what it really is--an assemblage of pathetic, mindless, driveling hypocrites. Myself included, of course.

The Lies of Revelation

To say that I have not been well lately would be something of an understatement. It is something of a long story, but I will endeavor to tell it here, for there is really nothing else I can do. On April 13, 2009, I had a revelation. As I sat in front of this very computer, in broad daylight, I was overwhelmed with an instantaneous burst of blissful light--of illuminating clarity. I understood, God damn it. I exclaimed to myself, "The meaning is in the emotion." That was the answer to my previous question of how can you live a meaningful life when you believe that life is meaningless? Through experience. Inject passion into everything. Feel everything, and then you will be alive. You will know meaning. It was the single most liberating thought I have ever had in my life. I feared for the rest of that day, then week, that that wonderful feeling would go away--that I would lose it. Oddly enough, I did not. I kept it for three weeks.

I lost it on May 8, for a number of reasons that I cannot explain. Simply, I realized that I could not live like that, without control. As an INTJ, I need control. I need logic. I need reason. I need to suppress my Goddamn emotions and live as a Vulcan. I cannot allow myself to find meaning through emotion because I cannot function as an emotional being. I realized this on May 8, and since then, I have tried to resume my life as a thoroughly left-brained individual.

I have learned a good deal about myself. I have realized that my writing is the only expression of my right brain, and that it is perhaps the healthiest thing I do. I have realized that I don't know how to write anymore, though, because I am too Goddamn afraid of that side of my brain. I have realized that I suppress my emotions because they run so deeply--deeper than I think anyone can know. I have realized exactly how stuck I am in my utopian image of how the world should be--and how much this image has ruined me for life and life for me.

I have realized that I must have deep-seated masochistic tendencies, for I most certainly know the truth. I know that I would be much happier if I could just accept that the meaning is in fact in the emotion. If I could live that freely, as I did in those few weeks, I would be a much happier person. However, I cannot. I have seen that I cannot. I have seen myself become what I cannot be. I will not, nay cannot allow it. So what will I do? Shackle myself within my own mind. Force myself to stay there. Punish myself for whatever tears I cry. Learn to live as I know I should, no matter the consequences. Learn to live the only way I can, and be damn miserable. Live long... and prosper?

Writing "FINIS" the Second Time

I finally completed the 12 page 3600 word epilogue of Martyrs tonight. I have been sick and feverish (not with Swine flu) all week, and writing this was simply the last step in cleaning out my system. All feels right again. I won't say any more about it, as I am rather tired. It is nice to be truly done, though.

Mad World

And so it seems that, after two months of hell behind the Berlin Wall, Reagan has come to my rescue. No, that really is not true. It does not matter, the truth. All that matters really is that I was able to write again today, for the first time in two months. I was able to truly write. Words flowed from my pen. I wrote 1600 words on binder paper at school, of all places. It was inspiration, pure and beautiful. I found myself able to write about Henry Erikson, something that I had sincerely doubt my ability to do. It is working. It is. And I am making him a touch more respectable than I originally intended.

But that is life. Each character needs to have redeeming qualities. Otherwise, he or she is simply hell to write about. And if you can't stand to write about your own characters, you know something is wrong.

The epilogue is not quite done. I have 2200 words or so. It is almost done. But none of this is the point. The point is this:

"Just because it's a lie doesn't mean it's not true." Felicity Adams

Oh, it's a fucking mad world.

The Head, the Heart, and the Soul

I find that I still believe in dreams. I still have goals. I found myself browsing publishers this morning. When other people ask me why I'm not published, I say it's because I don't care. That's a lie. I do care. A lot. I also believe that, though my writing can be decent, it is not good enough. This morning I discovered Cosmos and Polis Press, and I swear to God they would be perfect.

But I am so thoroughly screwed up. Mentally I am lost. I don't know if I'm coming or going, if I'm here or there. And on top of that, my horrid cynical mind kills my dreams. It tells me to see logic, to see reason, to examine my work for what it is and realize that it is horrible. I wrote a dramatic short about a year ago. It deals with this concept of a cold mind killing all that which has meaning. You can read it here, on my fictionpress account, which is amusing to browse. I only post the bad and the weird there. Oh I don't even know what I am saying.

My conscious is a black hole.

I have been thinking about writing a lot lately. Even though I did not use my spring break to test drive writing, writing has occupied my thoughts. It calms me down when I freak out, which has happened increasingly frequently.

I find myself wondering if I could give everything else up--if I really could be a career writer. Could I find anything more satisfactory? I hardly know. Oh God, I don't know. I still know only that I cannot live like this. I am suffocating myself. I am living a life of slow and painful suicide. OH GOD, I need to get out of limbo: send me to Heaven or Hell, I no longer care which, just do it now please God.

Dead Silence

I do not know what to say anymore. No, that is not true. I have already said it.

I was in Washington DC this last week on a band trip. I was with 160 people whom I hate and maybe one or two I don't. The trip did not go as planned; we did not play on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. We did not go to the National Archives. We spent all of ten minutes at Arlington. We did, however, spend ten or twenty minutes outside of the White House.

I stared at it for a long time. I blocked out the incessant chatter and turned night to day. I imagined that I was alone, there, on the foggy, rain-drenched afternoon of February 27, 2007. I looked to the West Wing and Oval Office and saw him there. I looked into the lighted rooms of the main building and saw him there. I looked at the dew-soaked lawn and saw him lying there. As the cruel hands of fate pulled me away from the gate, I whispered, ever so softly, "So long Mark."

And I thought then that I had found some sense of finality in those words. The word document in which I started the prologue of Martyrs is saved as so.long.mark.doc. I thought maybe that saying it to him would enable me to move on.

But obviously it didn't. Two nights later I was in the parking lot of a buffet in Northern Virginia. Out of sheer boredom, I turned to look up at the stars. I saw Orion. I remembered how, earlier that day when I had an obsessive-compulsive misanthropic attack, holding the flash drive in my white-knuckled hands was the only thing that really calmed me down. Staring at Orion, I knew that he wasn't gone, I wasn't over him.

At Dulles, when we were about to leave, I want to a gift shop called America! I wanted to buy a "Commander in Chief" travel mug, but I had spent too much souvenir money on a graphic adaptation of the Constitution. I spent minutes upon minutes agonizing. I looked up suddenly and saw the license plates with names on them. The panel happened to be turned to the M names. I saw Mark. I bought one without hesitation.

As I was writing this, it occurred to me that Ralph and Mark's final parting is wrong. It needs to be different for Ralph, not just the same. Here it is revised. Take note of Ralph's final words to Mark.

Mark’s eyes filled with wet pity, “I am going to have to leave you now, Ralph.”

“No,” Ralph shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t leave me, sir, not now. I need you. I need this.” He gestured tightly in an effort to capture conversation with his hands.

 “You only think you need me, Ralph.”

 “No,” Ralph shook his head in a panic, “no!”

“You will be better off without me anyway. You will learn to be your own person again. You will undo all the damage I did,” Mark beamed at him with his sad hazel eyes and forced a teary smile. “You will learn to be whole again.”

“No,” Ralph shook his head while tears streamed down his cheeks. “You promised me that you wouldn’t just leave. You said that someday I would be able to go on without you, but you didn’t say that you would leave me before then, without any warning.” He plead, “I can’t do it, sir, not yet. I still need you. I still—”

“Oh, come, Ralph,” Mark smiled with a touch of the good-nature Ralph remembered. “Don’t be silly. Yes, you will hurt at first, but you will be able to get over the pain eventually. You will be just fine. No,” he shook his head with a broader smile, “I take that back. You will be better than fine. You will be happy again.”

Ralph stared at him with frightened black eyes. To Mark, he looked something like a puppy.

“Come,” Mark mustered the cheeriest tone he could, “let’s not part with tears.” He forced himself to stand up.

Ralph remained firmly planted on the floor, unable to get up. If he stood, then it was real; if he stood, Mark Adams was really going to leave him forever.

Mark extended his hand.

Ralph shut his eyes as Mark pulled him to his feet.

He opened them to the horrible reality of standing there, like that, about to say those words that he simply could not say. At the very least, he thought, Mark had not released his hand.

“Well, Ralph,” Mark was not smiling anymore, despite his words on how they should part.

Ralph was petrified.

Mark looked, for one last time, steadily into Ralph’s honest black eyes. He saw reflected the purity of his purpose, for once, but also his own sadness. He felt the hot wet tears on his pale cheeks. “Do not forget me, Ralph, but try to live without me. Be your own person again, and do not worry about what I would say.”

Ralph’s weeping blocked his entire respiratory system. He could scarcely speak. “Sir,” he managed to choke out, “I—”  He paused. He didn’t know what to say, not in the slightest. He wanted to thank him for everything, but that was not honest. He thought of other farewells, but none of them fit. There was nothing he could say, he realized, that could possibly explain the complexity of his feelings for this man. “So long, Mark,” he coughed and stuttered but somehow got the simple words out.

“Adieu, Ralph,” Mark forced a smile and squeezed Ralph’s hand tightly.

Ralph blinked to find his hand empty—to find that Mark Thomas Adams had passed out of his life forever.

The Dead Tree of Life

How can you live a meaningful life when you believe that life is meaningless? How can you make it through the day when you believe that each motion you make, each word you say, each breath you take, is ultimately futile? How can you live your life when you believe that there is no reason to live? I cannot say, but I must wonder, for the Tree of Life is dead.

I have always wondered about the meaning of it all. That is nothing new. I have thought about it for years--since before I was truly conscious of my identity as a human being. But for some reason, the thoughts are different now. I have had them this past week with seemingly feverish intensity. I am no longer sick. I should be feeling better. I do not understand why the sickness of the soul has returned. It seems to come every year around this time, and by God I cannot say why my mind feels the need to torture itself like so. It is the most horrid depression imaginable, where everything seems so futile and meaningless. Everything hurts, and the universe is cold and empty. Everything is dead. I am utterly alone in a burning theater packed with a fat, panicking mob. Everything is disgusting and distasteful. Nothing is as it should be, and this knowledge hurts like hell. I see that I cannot make any of it right--that it will be crooked forever. I lose all hope. My soul shrivels up and loses its leaves.

I cannot write when I am like this. I need to, desperately, but I fundamentally cannot. I sit in front of my computer, highly caffeinated, for hours into the night. I stare at blank word documents, blasting music, trying to blast feeling into my soul. And then the tears come. I well up and fold myself in half, weeping, face contorted in perfect agony. I can never quite say why I am crying, but that there is nothing else I can do. It isn't just a fleeting disappointment; it is deep-seated sadness whose roots I simply cannot determine.

I don't know what to do. I know that being miserable doesn't make me special--it only makes me miserable. I know that this is probably the result of a simple chemical imbalance, and could be treated by drugs if I were not too proud to speak to someone in that damn mob. I don't know anymore. I just... I can't live like this. Something needs to change; I know neither what nor how. But I can't live like this. It's killing me.

The Writer Experiment

A week or so ago, I was sitting on the couch watching Castle. I thought about writing, about the writers' lifestyle, and what I wanted. I thought about my other passions: history, politics, economics. I realized that they often bore me. I don't really read history books all the way through. I can't watch the news daily for more than a week. Economics, while fascinating, is an ultimately hopeless field. As someone who believes in a free market, it's not like I want to control the market. Whereas, I have always been interested in writing.  As I was sitting there, feverish and high on cough medicine, I began to picture how my life could be. I could be a writer--a real writer--and spend the entire day in front of a nice computer, with my wonderful new clicking Das Keyboard, blasting whatever music I wanted, and writing. I could wallow in my thoughts. I could permanently run away from this world I despise and live in the world of which I dream. It would be a wonderful life, that.

I do not know, however, if it would be enough.

But I have time, now. I have spring break this week, meaning that I can finally breathe. I have very little homework. I have time to try on this lifestyle, this career, and see if it makes me happy. See, I base all of my life decisions off of experimentation. I have spent many weekends immersed in politics. They have made me happy enough. This week I will see if writing alone can make me happy. I will settle in coffee shops with a laptop and write, just write for hours on end. I will play the part. I will pretend to be a writer, and see if it makes me one.

Hypothesis: After a week of pretending to be a writer, I will know that I could potentially do it.

Materials: Laptop, Flash drive, Coffee Shop, Coffee, iPod, Crackberry

Procedure: Sit in coffee shop for hours on end, with coffee and laptop. Write.

The Master of the Marionettes

It is rather difficult, at times, to be an author. You spend hours, weeks, months, years of your free time with your characters, building them up, giving them goals, and then forcing them to struggle. You purposely place obstacles in their path, usually pulled out of thin air, just to watch them squirm. It is the most terrible form of sadism imaginable. They suffer, for the cruel enjoyment of others. You make these "characters" of yours, who are often so much more real than "real" people, dance. You twirl them around by the cross. They are simple marionettes who must live and die by the whim of their puppet-master. 

Oh God, it is a difficult thing to kill any character, but especially the protagonist of your first novel. And see, today is the 27th day of February. I wrote, on the 24th albeit, for Mark to be shot and killed on the 27th of 2007. I have had a terrible time of it these last two years, coping with the horror of creating a character whom you love but must kill for literature's sake. I killed Mark two years ago; I was the panther in the ski mask who shot him and watched him fold like a house of cards. It is my fault entirely, all of it. I was coping the best I could and had Ralph cope the same way. In my sleep I saw him. I dreamt of him. I made myself believe that he was not really gone, even in death. Yet, four nights ago, Mark told Ralph adieu--told him that it was time to move on. I wrote those words much more calmly than I expected. The tears were minimal. But now, oh God, now! I don't feel ready to let go. I looked up at the sky as I got out of the car tonight and saw Orion. I instantly thought of Mark--instantly thought that I cannot bear this.

I don't know where I can go from here. I tried to start the Epilogue tonight, but for God's sake, I cannot write about Henry Erikson right now. It was hard enough to write about Ralph, who was at least a somewhat honorable man with the best of intentions. Furthermore, I could still write good things about Mark. Now, I will have to cut all ties to the first two books and deprecate that which I had previously championed. I don't know how to do these things, how to turn evil to good and good to evil. I am not sure I even want to.

Yet, the first thing I have to do is come to terms with what I have written. Mark Adams died two years ago today. He is gone, and nothing can be done.

Book Stats: February the 24th, 2009

Pages: 200. Words: 57,986. Chapters: 5. Prologue? Yes, and it is damn good.. Epilogue? Last thing to do. Favorite Passage: Everything Mark says in Chapter 7: "Check Your Premises".

I am rather too excited to sleep. I might see if I can crank out the epilogue tonight. Or maybe not. Either way, I find it amusing that I wrote four chapters in less than a week with school. I feel so... on top of the world right now. And Matt Nathanson's song "To the Beat of Our Noisy Hearts" is really getting my blood moving tonight. Also, should I point out that I only got one hour of sleep last night and have had at least three or four caffeinated drinks?

Look at what my horoscope for today says: "Your communicative abilities are accented. This is an excellent time to sway others to your cause through speeches or clever arguments--your thinking is most lucid and grasping. Your energy is high and your creative juices are successfully being applied to whatever needs accomplishing. You will enjoy considerable success at this time. You feel vital; you feel good; you feel in harmony with yourself; the entire world, and everybody in it" (Pisces).

Part One: Cosmos
I. The Last Honest Man in Washington
II. Handkerchiefs and Hardships
III. The Silent Scream
IV. Lost Causes
V. The Human Bomb
Part Two: Chaos

VI. A Mouse in the Perfect Trap

VII. Check Your Premises

VIII. For How Life Should Be

IX. To Jump Off a Cliff

X. Forgiveness at Gunpoint

XI. No Way Out

XII. The Truth About Hope